


Time-Traveling Reginald and his Injury Prone Sidekicks

by jacktheminatureslayer



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Clumsy!Harry, Flowers, Hissing cats, Library, Lots of falling over, Louis is a manly man, M/M, Talk of timetravel, Tea-Drinker!Louis, Tree Climbing, Writer!Niall, blowjob, papercuts, these tags are horrid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-14
Updated: 2014-02-14
Packaged: 2018-01-12 08:35:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1184152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jacktheminatureslayer/pseuds/jacktheminatureslayer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis leaves his flat at exactly 7:03 every Tuesday morning to witness a very fit bloke tumble over himself at a coffee shop thirty minutes away. He takes it upon himself to make sure this Harry fellow doesn't end up in a hospital.</p><p>Or, the time Louis climbs a tree to prove his manliness while Harry follows blindly</p>
            </blockquote>





	Time-Traveling Reginald and his Injury Prone Sidekicks

**Author's Note:**

> Basically, I wrote this for Valentine's Day and the fluff in it makes my head ache.

Some people wonder why it is that Louis leaves to get coffee at exactly 7:03 on Tuesday mornings. Well, “some people” being Liam Payne and Niall Horan who are currently asking Louis this very question.

  
“Why do you always get coffee at seven in the bleeding morning on Tuesdays and don’t even think about lying, you twat,” Liam says while adding a few extra slices of sausages on his skillet. They sizzle and Louis thinks the sound matches the painful echoing sound in his own head.

  
He was trying to sneak out without anyone noticing, but Louis doesn’t have that kind of luck. “Erm,” he starts.

  
“Yeah, I’ve noticed that too, Lou,” Niall adds from his spot on the counter. He swivels and faces the front door where Louis’s hand is currently outstretched toward the knob, inches away from freedom.

  
Louis’s two best mates just stare at him as he tries to come up with a proper excuse. One that isn’t as embarrassing as the real reason, which is the very pretty boy who gets his coffee at 7:33 in the morning at the coffee shop about half an hour away from Louis’s flat. He feels his own face flame up as he attempts to control the situation at hand. “Well, I want...coffee,” he states with faltering confidence.

  
“You want coffee,” Liam repeats.

  
“Figured that one out, mate,” Niall adds.

  
And Louis leaves. He trips forward and grabs the door, swinging it open and slamming it behind himself as he races for the coffee shop. It’s not that he’s avoiding anything, it’s that he hates the smell of burning sausages. And Liam’s sausages were definitely burning. Probably.

  
There’s something calming about Manchester in the early spring mornings. Maybe it’s the trafficking streets or maybe the penetrating chilly air that meets Louis’s lungs as he jogs down main street. He really wouldn’t know because he’s running seven minutes late.

  
Seven minutes that he doesn’t have.

  
Seven minutes that the green-eyed stranger has to receive his coffee and leave before Louis even steps foot in the shop.

  
Then Louis has to wait another week to see him.

  
Louis really can’t wait another week.

  
He’s barely survived this one.

  
It’s silly, really, how somewhat obsessed he’s become with this bloke he only sees once a week. In fact, it’s borderline mental that Louis even saw him in the first place. It was months ago, the start of the semester when Louis was pulled from the depths of his dream to go on a “caffeine run” for Niall.

  
Niall had been writing all night, just little poems and stories that seemed irrelevant to Louis, but he spends hours on them. Hours that cut into things like sleep, food, and schooling. He’s had this habit ever since Liam and Louis became his roommates.

  
The first time they’ve witnessed it was within the second week of their first year of uni. The three of them had gotten on well enough and they all felt their classes were well lectured and somewhat accommodating, so when Niall locked himself in his room, the faint light of his lamp leaking through the crack at the bottom of the door, Liam and Louis knew something was up. They found out that Niall was in one of his “motivated” moods and refused to stop writing until exhaustion took over.

  
Liam and Louis didn’t really know what to do, so they fed and watered him until the mood cracked and he was through.

  
Now that they’re moved out of the dorms and into their own flat this year, these moods are more predictable. When he hears a good song, reads a good novel, or even when he sees a happy couple on the street, Niall has to write about it. Liam and Louis have given themselves “roles” to play when it happens. Liam watches over Niall (even sleeps in his bed to keep him company) and fetches food for him while Louis covers missed classes and, apparently, makes coffee runs.

  
Liam woke him up that early morning. “Lou. Louis get up. Niall is freaking out, Lou. He’s only half-way through a short story and he’s about to collapse,” he whispered into Louis’s practically dead body.

  
“Mmmph,” Louis replied.

  
Liam took this as permission and yanked the lad from underneath his covers. “Go get coffee or else he won’t stop moping over it for weeks!”

  
The coffee shop is old and nothing special. Louis only faintly remembered passing by the building on his way to campus so, in his semi-conscious state, he jogged there and crossed the threshold at exactly 7:33 on an August's Tuesday morning.

  
The queue traveled all the way to the front of the door. Despite the run-down and bland appearance, the place must of had some spectacular coffee. It took quite some time, but Louis reached the register to order and mumbled through his order of a regular coffee and a pastry from the baked goods cabinet.

  
Between paying for his order and actually receiving his order is when Louis saw the stranger.

  
There was a flicker of movement to the left and the deafening sound of a crash that caught his attention. A lad, maybe a few years younger than Louis, had stumbled and spilled his own order of coffee all over an unoccupied section of ground. He apologised to each individual in the store and even forced the employees to let him mop up his own mess. It’s not really his outright fit appearance that kept Louis’s attention. His combed up quiff that curled around his ears, extremely thin, but incredibly long legs, or massive hands, even.

  
What really caught Louis’s attention that turned into something of a fixation were his damned dimples.

  
It’s absolutely absurd and Louis knows it! He blames it on the lack of sleep coupled with the adrenaline of racing to get caffeine before his flatmate fell asleep. They’re just indents in the cheeks, for bloody sakes! Yet, Louis stared until his order was thrust into his hands. He stared until his mobile phone alerted him that he was too late, that Niall had collapsed and they would be hearing about the unresolved plot of his short story for weeks until Niall found the motivation to finish it.

  
Really, Louis’s mind shouldn’t be fixed on some stranger’s cheeks.

  
In a turn of events, Louis had found himself returning to the coffee shop the next week with no excuse other than finding the lad again. This time, the lad was in trainers and joggers and he didn’t spill his coffee. Instead, he accidentally crashed into a middle-aged woman in business attire.

  
Once again, he apologised to every single customer in the shop and proceeded to purchase the woman’s order, arguing with her about whether he should also purchase a gift certificate so that she could receive free coffee for months. Flustered, the woman ran out without any coffee and left the lad downtrodden, fumbling over his own feet.

  
He made eye-contact with Louis and Louis found something else to become fixated with. The bloke has green eyes. Not faint green, but the whole package. Slivers of pale irises that surround his pupil. Louis was fucked over.The lad was the first to break the eye contact and he blushed at the floor before rushing out of the store.

So, every Tuesday Louis got coffee. He left the flat at 7:03 and speed walked to the shop only to catch glimpses of the lad with green eyes and dimples.

  
Today, however, it looks like Louis won’t get the opportunity. It’s ten minutes before eight when he opens the door and steps into queue. He’s contemplating turning around and walking back to his flat to ignore his flatmates for a week (secret punishment for delaying his visit) when a loud sound breaks his personal misery.

  
The stranger with dimples and green eyes is face flat on the ground, two tables and several chairs surrounding him. Louis breaks the awkward atmosphere and rushes to help the bloke up. He staggers to his feet, eyes locked on the tiled floor, and cheeks burning red. Instead of apologising to everyone, he fumbles out of the shop uncharacteristically leaving the mess behind him for employees to clean up.

  
Perhaps it’s the fact that his flatmates broke his routine and made him late or maybe it’s the fact that this lad seemed to be acting strangely that pushed Louis to follow him out of the shop and onto the streets again. Either way, Louis finds himself following the mess of limbs and curls all the way to the corner, shouting for him to stop.

  
Finally, the stranger pauses and slowly turns to Louis. “I’m really, really sorry,” he exclaims in a breathless and very low voice.

  
Louis ignores this statement. “Are you okay?” he asks instead, eyes studying him to unmask any hidden injuries.

  
The question catches the lad off guard. “Erm, yeah, I mean--yeah, I’m okay,” he stammers, fidgeting in his spot.

  
Louis breaths out a breath of relief and holds his hand out to him. “Louis,” he states.

  
“Harry.” He shakes his outstretched hand. His eyebrows are furrowed and his lips are slightly puckered in confusion.

  
“Well Harry, I hope you don’t have a concussion,” Louis says with a wink. He’s not entirely sure why in the world that is the only thing he can think of to say to the bloke he’s been obsessed with for months.

  
Harry shakes his head. “No, I don’t think so.”

  
“How would you know, anyhow? You’re the one with the concussion,” Louis voices his thought process out loud and--there it is. “No, you need someone to watch over you. To make certain of your well-being.”

  
It’s a pathetic excuse, really. A very, very desperate plea that anyone else would have probably seen through in a blink of an eye, but this Harry fellow is not like anyone else. His eyes widen at Louis’s statement and he blinks back his surprise. “I’m headed to my flat. My flatmate can watch me,” he says, forehead crinkled in worry.

  
“That won’t do,” Louis continues, thrilled that he has an in. “Nope, you’re coming with me,” he concludes and grabs onto Harry’s arm.

  
The action prompts a grunt of confusion. “Where are we going?” he asks, tripping over his feet to match Louis’s pace.

  
Louis slows down to keep him from tripping over himself. Again. “Good question, Harold,” he says over his shoulder.

  
Where could they go where Harry is incapable of injuring himself? Louis’s flat is off limits. There are knives. Oh, and his flatmates would ask questions, probably. Nope, they can’t go there. The coffee shop is out of the question and Louis isn’t willing to go on campus before his first lecture.

  
They walk passed a perfume shop as Louis contemplates a mattress store. A whiff of strong scents attacks his face like a blood thirsty raccoon and Louis freezes. Harry slams into his back and nearly sends them both hurtling to the floor, but Louis doesn’t have time for such nonsense. “Come on,” he grunts to the boy and pulls him several blocks further away from the main road.

  
They’re both panting by the time they reach Louis’s destination: a very small, very unremarkable flower garden by an even smaller park. “Here we are,” Louis concludes and pulls Harry to the center of said garden.

  
The flowery scents here are more natural and crisp. Brightly coloured daffodils and pansies trail the edges of the garden while shrubs of roses cluster around the grassy center. It’d be more beautiful if there wasn’t an army of weeds twisting around the plants, sucking life like parasites.

  
Harry sits and just stares at the area, probably taking in the lack of beauty. Louis feels a little silly now, seeing how completely unremarkable the garden is, but he pulls out of his embarrassment quickly and grabs the nearest flower--a small, red tulip. “Do you like this one, Harold?” he asks the boy and all but shoves the poor flower in his face.

  
Harry smiles and gently lifts the plant from his grasps. “It’s beautiful,” he remarks softly and pets the petals.

  
Louis stares at him. Stares at how gently his fingers graze over the coloured petals. Stares at him nibbling at his lips. Stares at his nose faintly reddening. Stares at his pale green eyes slowly glaze with small tears.

  
He pulls himself out of his staring and asks, “Do you like roses better? Of course you do, everyone likes roses.”

  
He leans over to the closest rose bushel when Harry scrambles forward. “Careful, thorns!” he grunts and stumbles, head falling into the bush.

  
It was like slow motion. Harry’s eyes widening comically as he loses his balance and plunges into the rose shrub, slapping Louis’s arm away from that same shrub. Louis hears Harry’s hiss of pain and immediately goes to pull him out.

  
Fuck. This was supposed to be the one place that Harry was supposed to stay safe. His curls are caught in the thorns and Louis has to untangle them before Harry can escape fully. He winces at the shallow scarring on his cheeks, barely missing the deep indentations on his cheeks.

  
“Roses have thorns,” Harry says once he’s sitting upright again.

  
Louis is barely listening, throwing himself into another wave of thoughts to figure out where to take the accident-prone lad kneeling next to him.

  
Harry’s picked up the tulip again and busies himself with the petals. “My mum and I used to smash flowers in books to flatten them. Never did roses. Roses have thorns,” he repeats, but Louis pauses.

  
Books.

  
“Come along,” he says and bounces up from his spot. “We’ve got to go.”

  
Harry stares from his own place on the ground, blinking up at Louis. Louis makes a sound of discontent and moves to yank the lad up. It’s a close call, but he gets Harry onto his feet without too much worry. Once he’s up, Louis grabs his hand and pulls him to the main road again.

  
Libraries are safe, right? Louis can’t think of one bad thing happening in a library. Well, except for silent student suffering at the ugly face of academics, but that shouldn’t be a physical ailment for Harry. If anything, he’d just have to pay for therapy.

  
One of the many libraries in Manchester is a battered down building that smells of stale cigarettes and wet dog. The building itself is plain and poorly lit, begging the question of building codes. Do they even do inspections anymore? The two enter through the squeaking foggy glass door at the side of the building. A fat cat meets them at the front desk and hisses at Louis.

  
“Harry, meet Reginald,” Louis states pointing at the snarling creature.

  
Louis hears Harry whisper, “Reginald…?” before he turns on his heel and climbs up a staircase to the second floor. The heavy steps of boots echos after him, assuring him that Harry is following.

The second floor houses the main literature selections. Cases of books filled with stories of adventure, adrenaline, heartbreak, experiments, and romance echo along ugly wallpaper and stained carpeting. Louis leads Harry to the back corner where the fantasy novels rest.

  
“Here we are,” Louis announces and plops himself on the floor against one of the columns.

  
“A library.” Harry sits on the floor in front of Louis.

  
Louis nods. “A library.”

  
Harry’s eyebrows shoot up and he looks around himself a bit before stating, “Didn’t really see this one coming.”

  
Louis ignores this comment. “How’s your face?” he asks.

  
“My face…?”

  
“Yes, Harold, your face. Man versus shrubbery, curls against thorns, your own personal War of the Roses. Your face. Is your face okay?” Louis frowns and picks at the carpet. The harsh fabric cuts into his fingers.

  
“Erm, yeah it’s good. Listen,” he shifts forward, large feet touching Louis’s folded legs, “you really don’t have to do this anymore. I feel fine.”

  
Louis snatches his legs away and glares at the fidgeting boy. “What are you saying?”

  
Harry winces and stares at the tops of his knees. “I don’t want you wasting your day with me,” he tells his kneecaps. Louis assumes he’s talking to him.

  
“Harry, I want to make sure you don’t die.” Louis reaches and grabs the unresponsive kneecaps so that Harry’s facing Louis’s hand.

  
His frown deepens. “I’m not very good company,” he tells Louis’s hand.

  
“The conversation isn’t all that thrilling, but you’re very entertaining,” he tells the boy.

  
Harry finally looks at him, eyes searching Louis’s. Eventually he lets out a breath and grabs a random book from the shelf behind himself. “What do you think of time traveling?” Harry asks.

  
Louis keeps his hand on his knees and lets his head drop back against the column. His eyes fall shut with the movement. “Are you asking whether I think it’s possible or if it’s happened?”

  
“Erm, both,” he hears Harry’s low voice respond slowly, almost as if he’s contemplating the direction of the conversation like it’s a world speculated debate.

  
“I think…” Louis drags out, feeling power in Harry’s attention. “That it’s possible and that Reginald’s a time traveler.”

  
A boom of a squealed cackle makes Louis open his eyes. Harry’s hands cover his mouth, eyes wide with surprise. He says something, but his comment is muffled by his enormous hands.

  
“What?” Louis questions.

"I've never made that sound before," Harry repeats once his hands uncover his mouth.

Louis's about to make a comment that may or may not have been sexual when: “Louis Tomlinson?! What are you doing in my library?” A short woman with frizz for hair finds the two of them. She’s sending darts for glares at Louis and holding a thick book in her small fingers.

  
“Why isn’t it my favourite librarian, Wendy!” Louis greets her and pulls himself from the ground. Harry looks between the two with a mixture of surprise and fascination.

  
The woman just looks at them in horror. “It’s Wanda,” she responds in a stiff tone, “and you’re banned.”

  
Louis shrugs off his discomfort and pouts at Wanda. “But Rhonda--”

  
“Wanda!”

  
“Harry and I are trying to expand our knowledge,” he finishes, ignoring the interruption.

  
Her face begins to turn a purplish-red colour and Louis wonders, not for the first time, whether he’s pushed too far. “OUT!” she screeches.

  
Harry jumps up, fumbling with the book to put it back while Wanda chants, “OUT, OUT, OOUUUT!”

  
Louis grabs the book from him and tosses it on a slightly empty shelf. Harry hisses and pulls one of his fingers to his mouth while Louis yanks him by the shirt as far away from the woman as possible. Once they’re safely outside the building, Harry inspects his finger while Louis fixes his own fringe.

  
“Papercut,” he states.

  
“You’re shitting me,” Louis curses and pulls the guilty finger to inspect it himself. Sure enough, another shallow cut marks the surface of the skin.

  
Harry lets the finger fall from Louis’s grasp and questions, “Why are you banned from the library?”

  
“Don’t ask questions you don’t want to know the answers to.” Louis waves him off and walks to nowhere in particular.

  
Harry makes a whining noise behind him. “But I want to know.” Louis can hear the pout in his deep voice. “I don’t know anything about you and I want to know something.”

  
“I went through an arson phase,” he lies and laughs when he turns to see Harry’s face pale. “I’m kidding, Harold. I just spoiled the ending of Twilight for her, that’s all.”

  
Harry regards him, furrowing his eyebrows. “She looked at you like you killed her firstborn.”

  
Louis wants to smooth the pinched skin in between his eyebrows with his lips. “She’s a librarian, Harold. She practically lives with her nose in books.”

  
“Hmmm...okay.” He finally shrugs and then smiles at Louis. “So you’ve read Twilight?”

  
“Sisters! I have sisters!” Louis yells and then runs down the pavement, Curly-top following and laughing to catch up.

  
He’s not really sure entirely where he’s going, but hearing Harry chasing him sends waves of adrenaline down his spine as he pushes through the crowds of people, turning down all sorts of streets. He ends up running down an urban street with small cottage-like houses lining the road. In a fit of ingenuity, he races into someone’s yard and clutches onto the base of a tree.

  
Louis quickly climbs to the third or fourth branch by the time Harry catches up. “Louis!” he calls up the tree, cackling against the bark of the base. He pants and tries to follow, but fails to get up even an inch. “Louis,” he tries calling again, “come down!”

  
“I am a manly man, Harold!” Louis shouts at him from his perch.

  
Harry chuckles harder and wipes at the sweat pooled on his forehead.

  
“I do not read such girly literature! I am clever and witty, and...handsome and I am a manly man full of testosterone and manliness!” he continues and pounds his feet against the tree, making the branches shake.

  
“Come down, you tosser, and face me like a man then,” Harry laughs.

  
Louis frowns. “Not until you confirm that I am the manliest man you know. I eat meat, I play footie, and, erm, I have chest hair!”

  
“Louis, mate, the first place you dragged me to was a flower garden!” Harry’s chuckles are turning into violent cackles and Louis will not stand for this.

  
“I will not stand for this, Harold,” he states firmly. “You will respect your elders. Now you must suffer through your concussion alone.”

  
Harry’s cackling quiets down to soft snorting. “Okay, okay, you are the manliest man that I have ever encountered in my nearly two decades of life. Now will you come down before a stray bird finds your mess of a head?”

  
Louis gasps. “How dare you!” but descends the tree and drops next to his snorting friend.

  
“My turn,” Harry says once he gets over his laughing fit. He grabs onto Louis’s hand and drags him all the way back to main street and down towards the old coffee shop. “Back to the scene of the crime.” He smiles at Louis as they push the front door open. He’s still holding Louis’s hand as he whistles to himself in the queue.

  
He orders for the both of them and answers Louis’s questioning stare with, “You’ve been coming here for weeks.”

  
They sit near the back, employees staring worryingly at Harry as he overcomes the obstacles of furniture. “Louis Tomlinson,” he starts once they’re sat and cosy.

  
“Harold…?”

  
“Harry Styles,” Harry answers and holds his hand out.

  
Louis shakes it and nods. “Harold Styles.”

  
Harry laughs at this, but keeps his hand firmly holding Louis's. He drops his hold to the table and takes a sip of his latte. “A garden, library, and tree.”

  
“Sorry?” Louis responds, lifting his eyes from their grasping hands.

  
“I don’t understand you,” he admits, looking down at the table.

  
“Well, there’s not much to understand. I’m Louis Tomlinson, 21 and from Doncaster. I have four younger sisters and two coming. I spend my free time spoiling teenage romance novels to middle-aged women and practicing footie in a small park off of main street next to a dying flower garden. My best mates think I’m mental because I leave the flat every Tuesday morning at 7:03 to walk for thirty minutes to come here for coffee when I prefer tea and, apparently, I can’t keep someone from injuring themselves for a whole two hours.” He finishes his short speech gently grazing his free hand’s fingertips over the scratches on Harry’s face.

  
Harry’s stupid green eyes are practically twinkling as he beams. His fucking dimples deepen with the movement and Louis is so very, very fucked over.

  
“My name is Harry Styles,” he starts, jumping up and down in his seat like a two-year-old. “I’m 19 and from Chesire. I’ve got an older sister who forced me to read Twilight and a mother that had her own flower garden, almost as beautiful as the one you took me to. My best mate thinks I’m borderline insane because I walk thirty minutes to come here every Tuesday morning at 7:33 to get him a latte even though we live above a perfectly fine coffee shop and...well, I guess I can’t help but fall for you, Louis Tomlinson,” he finishes with a proud smile.

  
Louis groans. “I can’t believe you said that! That was horrible and you know it.”

  
“What?” Harry frowns, his eyebrows furrowing.

  
“‘I can’t help but fall for you’,” Louis mimics Harry's low drawl. “It’s like you jumped out of a romance film or something,” he complains but leans forward and smooths out the pinch between his eyebrows with his lips. “Besides,” he adds, leaning back into his seat and pushing his coffee away with distaste. “I just realized we’ve spent a large amount of money at this establishment and I need to drown out my sorrows with tea.”

  
“Not enough,” Harry comments, glancing over at the staff who are still watching Harry with painfully untrusting glares. He turns back and chuckles before asking, “Is that some sort of ploy to get you in my pants, Louis Tomlinson?”

  
Louis’s mouth drops open. “Why I never--Harry Styles, are you insinuating that I dragged you all across Manchester just to steal your virtue?!”

  
Harry’s eyebrow raises at this and he smiles openly. “Not insinuating anything. Besides,” he leans forward and whispers, “you said your flat is thirty minutes away too, right? I’d rather just blow you in the loo.”

  
He smiles proudly as Louis sputters in his seat, completely and utterly speechless. Eventually he chokes out, “I don’t think we need to scar the staff anymore than you already have.”

  
Harry pouts but jumps out of the booth, pulling Louis’s hand. “Fine, but it’s your fault if I drop down on my knees on our way to your flat.”

  
Louis tumbles over and crashes into a table in the middle of the shop. Everything collapses around him and he feels his ears heat up and turn red as the staff scrambles over to fix everything. Harry cackles and apologises while pulling Louis out of the shop.

  
“You might have a concussion,” he calls over his shoulder. “You’re going to need someone to watch over you. I don’t mind.”

  
Louis groans and pulls Harry down a few blocks and into the library. Reginald glares at them while Louis pushes Harry into loo. “Do you think he’s going to time travel while we…” Harry whispers conspiringly to Louis against the stall door.

  
“Wanker,” Louis mutters and fights with the lad’s zipper.

  
“It’s a fair question,” Harry argues, slapping his hands away and pulling his trousers down for him.

  
Louis rolls his eyes and leans down on the ground. “It’s not a question of if he goes, Harold. It’s a matter of where he’s going.”

  
“Where do you think--” his question is cut off by his own sharp intake of breath. Louis palms him and watches the blood fill the surprisingly massive cock. Surprising because Louis wonders how, exactly, Harry gets the poor thing in his tight trousers. Fashion miracle, he supposes.

  
“I think he’s going to go visit Ancient Egypt. Get himself some slaves to carry his fat body around,” Louis comments idly as Harry throws his head back against the stall door. The knock echoes.

  
While he palms with his right hand, his left hand’s fingers walk up Harry’s thighs, passed his waistband, to poke Harry’s belly. “What would you do if you could time-travel?”

  
Harry looks down as if to question ‘is this really the time,’ but he answers anyway. “I’d g-go back to relive the,” he hisses when Louis mouths at the tip of his clothed cock. “Sc-cript concert.”

  
Louis pulls back and frowns. “The Script concert? You mean when they played here, in Manchester, 2009?”

  
Harry frowns and nods. Louis stares at nothing in particular, so Harry takes his more urgent matter into his own hands, literally. He sighs once his hand makes contact with his very prevalent boner and works to relieve himself.

  
“Where would you go?” he grits out between thrusts.

  
Louis breaks himself from his daydreaming and finally pulls at Harry’s waistband, hitting Harry’s hand away. “That sounds nice. I’d go there too.”

  
“No, somewhere you’ve been before,” Harry moans.

  
Louis kisses his shaft and licks the tip. “I was there,” he states and then grabs Harry’s hips and wraps his mouth around his cock.

  
“You--uhhh--y-you were th-there?” he stammers and places his hands on the stall walls, holding himself up.

  
Louis hums around his cock and Harry loses all ability to form coherent thoughts. Louis pulls back and sucks the head a bit before pulling off completely and pumping with his hand. “I went with my mate from Doncaster, Stan. First and last time seeing a live performance. Strange that you were there too,” he states calmly and then returns to sucking on Harry’s tip.

  
At this point, Harry is biting down on his knuckles to keep from making noise. He manages to stutter out between low moans, “S-Strange.”

  
Louis starts bobbing, alternating between fast and slow, but somehow he’s keeping some sort of internal rhythm and it...well, it works. Harry’s a sweating and panting mess when he pulls off again to return to stroking and pumping. “I don’t really remember the opening act much, but, god, the opening song...Everyone was so loud and then it got really quiet,” Harry whimpers here. “and then people started singing along. It’s like we were all one underneath the roof. All there for one purpose,” Louis’s eyes stare off in memory by the end and, if Harry weren't receiving the best blowjob of his life so far, he’d probably tease him.

  
But, Harry is receiving the best blowjob of his life and he’s having a really hard time keeping himself together. Especially when Louis goes back down and starts fondling his balls. “Louis,” he hisses. Louis blinks a few times and pulls off, finishing Harry with a few wrist twitches. He guides him through the last of his orgasm before grabbing toilet paper and wiping them down.

  
“So you think Reginald went to the Script’s concert?” Harry asks between pants.

  
Louis smiles and stretches out his legs. “Probably not, he has a horrible taste in music.”

  
Harry nods and then grins. “Your turn.”

  
***

They manage to leave the library, patting Reginald farewell, and head to Louis’s flat. When they enter, they’re faced with an empty frontroom and kitchen. Louis frowns and then it hits him: Niall has gotten into one of his "motivated" moods.

  
Seeing that Harry's place is actually an hour away from Louis's on foot, he isn’t about to kick him out due to embarrassing roommates, so he thinks of a different option. “You ready for another round?” Louis asks, patting Harry’s thigh where he knows Harry’s tucked his friend in. Fashion miracle, indeed.

  
“I want to meet your flatmates,” Harry says, because, of-fucking-course. Louis gets the bloke with manners and shit.

  
He removes his hand and scratches the back of his neck. “Well, okay...you see I have this one roommate that--”

  
“Harry Styles?” Liam’s voice booms.

  
Harry smiles. “Liam Payne? You live with Louis?”

  
“What the bleeding h--” Louis mutters.

  
“Harry Styles is here?!” Niall’s voice cuts in and he’s bounding toward them, blood-shot eyes and all to cuddle Harry.

  
“How do you know Lou?” Liam asks, laughing as Niall ruptures Harry’s ribs.

  
Harry pulls away and grabs Louis’s hand. Niall’s eyes widen and the action. “No...Louis’s not your bloke from the coffee shop! No fucking way! How did we not connect them together?” Niall asks Liam, but stares at their intertwined hands.

  
“Didn’t think Louis was Harry’s type,” Liam answers with a shrug.

  
“How dare you, you toss--” but Louis is interrupted in the best possible way. Harry shuts him up with a kiss and pats his head.

  
He turns to Niall and asks, “Still writing?”

  
Niall laughs. “Actually, I think you’ll like this story.”

  
Liam smiles knowingly while Louis asks, “What’s it about?”

  
“Two bleeding idiots that meet in a coffee shop,” Niall responds and ducks when Louis tries to tackle him.

  
Harry sighs. “Sounds good. Hey Liam, what do you think of time-traveling cats?”

  
“Maybe you _are_ Louis’s type.”

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](http://jacktheminiatureslayer.tumblr.com)


End file.
